


In the Throes of You

by jennandblitz



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Aftercare, BDSM, BDSM Scene, BDSM without sex, Bad BDSM Etiquette, Bathtubs, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, Impact Play, Knifeplay, M/M, Minor Injuries, No Sex, Non-Explicit Sex, POV Remus Lupin, Pining, bdsm club, everyone is a switch
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-28
Updated: 2020-02-28
Packaged: 2021-02-28 00:54:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,187
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22945114
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jennandblitz/pseuds/jennandblitz
Summary: Written for Remus Lupin Fest 2020.Prompt 178: Sirius has a track record for picking bad BDSM doms, but luckily Remus is always there to provide the proper aftercare he needs.Thank you to my betas, and to whoever prompted this fic because I was drawn in immediately. I wanted to really delve into the psychological aspect of BDSM and the aftercare required, as well as showing a few different aspects of the scene and clubs. I hope you enjoy!
Relationships: Remus Lupin & Nymphadora Tonks, Sirius Black/Remus Lupin
Comments: 20
Kudos: 50
Collections: Remus Lupin Fest 2020





	In the Throes of You

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Remus Lupin Fest 2020.  
>  _Prompt 178: Sirius has a track record for picking bad BDSM doms, but luckily Remus is always there to provide the proper aftercare he needs._
> 
> Thank you to my betas, and to whoever prompted this fic because I was drawn in immediately. I wanted to really delve into the psychological aspect of BDSM and the aftercare required, as well as showing a few different aspects of the scene and clubs. I hope you enjoy!

“Yeah, yeah, work is fine, Nym,” Remus says, slipping off his shoes as he slides into the plush velvet booth next to his friend.

Her violet hair is short and cropped, slicked back from her face as if she’s a 1920’s gangster today, paired perfectly with her shirt and suspenders. She peers at him with earnest, wide eyes, tapping the eraser end of her pencil against the paper beneath it. “Sure it is, Rem.”

Suppressing a sigh, Remus takes a gulp of the glass of water that Nym pushes towards him. She’s right, of course: work is fucking stressful and he’s been run off his feet for the past two weeks. He had to pass up on coming here last Saturday because he had lessons to plan.

Remus teaches at Hogwarts, the local school that accommodates individualised education for children that need special care. It’s stressful as anything; and with the school being chronically underfunded and faculty empathy at an all time low, Remus feels as if he’s barely staying afloat. He can’t exactly _complain_ about his job though, can he? Not in the current climate, not with the way the children he teaches have it _so_ much worse. Remus might be a ball of anxiety and internalising his issues, but he can’t complain about this. So he keeps it quiet, smiles and says _ah, work is fine_ , knowing that Nym knows he’s lying, that James and Lily and Sirius can see it a mile off. But tonight he tries to put work out of his head, at the club with Nym opposite him and the room roaring pleasantly around them.

This is _his_ community, the place that accepts him just as he is. Everyone at The Tower respects Remus, and it’s the place where he can be himself, hang out with his friends… do everything society has told him is _bad_ and _wrong_ but he can’t shake the taste for.

“So, what do you want tonight?” Nym taps her pencil again. She has one foot crossed up onto the other knee; everything about her tonight oozes power and assuredness. Remus has scened with her often enough to know what she’s in the mood for, and their kinks always fit together so wonderfully. Nym has an energy Remus can pour himself into, so he leans into it, tucks himself into his seat and sips more of his water.

“I was thinking impact play,” Remus starts, pulling the second sheet of paper on the table towards his body, plucking up the pencil that comes rolling with it. He turns the sheet over to mark a check in the column next to _Impact Play_. When he’d first arrived at The Tower as a fresh-faced eighteen year old with Lily beside him—she’d dragged him along, but it had opened up something deliciously devious in him—he’d been terrified by the standard checklists that litter the booths like menus. Now he knows only to focus on the sections he wants, though, especially when playing with a partner he knows as well as Nym.

Nym chuckles as she checks off her own list. “Well, _duh_. Remus Lupin is so stressed his shoulders are up by his ears and—How long has your eye been twitching like that for? Impact play it is. Hand or paddle? My shoulder is still fucked from a few weeks back so I can’t do anything whip-like. Cane at a push, I think.”

“Paddle.” Remus rolls his shoulders, checking down his list for yes and no. “Maybe the flogger? You have that nice leather one, with the wide straps? The really thuddy one?”

“Yeah. Remember, last time we worked up to that.”

“Well, I dunno if we’ll need it, but if we want to move up in intensity, I’d say that.”

“Yeah, I’m not starting off with that thing. Get you all warmed up first.” Nym drinks some more of her own water. “Drink up too. Have you eaten today?”

Remus rolls his eyes but drinks a mouthful of water.

“Of course I have. Nym, you’re younger than me, I was here when you turned up! I’m an old hat at this shit, it’s been like, seven years.” He gives her an exasperated look, raking a hand through his sandy hair.

Nym is right, though, because Remus taught her. One of the positives of being a Switch is that Remus can inhabit both sides of the slash and get to see his teachings in action. But still, he can’t let Nym get away with being so sassy, even if she is right.

Nym hits back with an eye-roll of her own, gesturing towards him with her pencil. “Perhaps, but you’re also wound tight as ever. Responsible play partners make sure each other are healthy enough to scene with, Lupin.” She catches the tip of the pencil between her teeth for a moment before sighing. “Don’t make me get my cousin to check in on you.”

“Christ, no,” Remus is quick to assure her. “Really, Nym, I’m fine. Work is just stressful. I’m eating well, sleeping properly; Sirius, James and Lily make sure of that.”

They’d all arrived together earlier, in a taxi from their shared flat, with Lily chatting away animatedly to the driver in the passenger seat and Remus, James and Sirius sitting in the back. It was Saturday night, and going to The Tower was their version of going to watch a movie or grab dinner. The four of them had parted ways not long after arriving at the club. James and Lily have probably gone to socialise for a little while; though if Remus recalls correctly, Lily is subbing for one of the Prewett brothers tonight. James doesn’t have anything planned; he’s on Dungeon Monitor duty for the first half of the night but, knowing the way he oozes charisma and has a distinctly happy-go-lucky attitude, he’ll end up scening with someone.

Sirius, though; Remus never knows what he has planned in advance, and it’s probably a good thing. Remus’ best friend has a bad habit of picking awful play partners. Still, it isn’t Remus’ place to get involved, so it’s easier for now to put it out of his mind. Remus knows what Sirius does, and for years he’s been silently wishing that Sirius would have a sudden realisation of his self-worth. He’s had years of people pulling him apart piece by piece, but they never put him back together. Remus has put him back together before, picked him back up, knitted his pieces together, but he never learns; every time, Remus has to watch him, dab his cuts, stroke his hair, give him the aftercare he needs. Remus stops himself from thinking about that though; he’s here with Nym tonight and she is going to make him feel a thousand times better. Remus doesn’t think of Sirius; he _doesn’t_.

“Okay, good.” Nym scribbles something on her own paper. “Limits for tonight? I know your hard ones already, right?”

Remus nods. “No biting, no tickling. No gags,” he rattles off, thinking back to all those times he’s discovered his limits by butting right up against them; he knows them all now. “Yours haven’t changed, have they?”

Nym shrugs. “No watersports, no scat, no degradation, but I don’t think they’re going to come into play tonight, not when I’m Topping. Soft limits tonight? Nothing with what we’ve got planned. We usually restrain you. Is that something you want tonight?”

“Yeah, please. Not the Cross, though, if your shoulder is still injured?” Remus tucks his foot up onto the chair and glances out across the booths. He can spot Lily’s flame-red hair where she’s stood at the bar talking to a Prewett—Remus can’t tell who from this far away—and James is strolling around doing his Dungeon Monitor duty. Sirius, predictably, is nowhere to be seen. Knowing him, he’s probably off in one of the private rooms with someone, engaging in his favourite form of edgeplay.

“I agree, I don’t want to have to haul you around.” Nym thinks for a moment. “Okay, how about just to one of the benches? Rope or cuffs?”

“The cuffs on the bench will be fine. I don’t think the restraint is the important bit here. We don’t need rope.”

“Absolutely.”

The rest of their negotiation goes smoothly, as it does with two experienced partners, and Remus finishes his glass of water before he and Nym go through to one of the four areas with spanking benches. They have to wait for a while for the scene still going on there to finish, so they hang around and make idle conversation with other patrons, greet people Remus hasn’t seen for a while. 

He doesn’t make a habit of watching other people scene, but when it’s something he has a particular interest in, he can’t help but take a peek—if they’re in a public space, of course. So Remus watches with curiosity as, across the room (he doesn’t watch the spanking bench they’re waiting for, else he’ll get too antsy), the other Prewett twin—Remus still can’t tell them apart—ties up Marlene. Marlene’s girlfriend Dorcas watches and helps Prewett as they secure Marlene to the hard point in the ceiling and gradually lift her up, limb by limb, until she’s hanging from her hands and feet, her blonde hair cascading down from the ponytail it’s in. Remus loves suspension, both Topping and bottoming, and he can tell, just by the way she’s breathing, despite the silk blindfold around her eyes, that Marlene’s not on this plane right now.

Eventually, one of the spanking benches opens up and Remus helps Nym clean the area down. She stays in her shirt and slacks but rolls her sleeves up as Remus strips down to his underwear. He runs his hands through his hair and takes a deep breath, letting the stress of work sink away from the surface for a moment. It’s still there, of course, because he’s Remus Lupin and he internalises everything, but it’s easier to ignore as he comes to stand in front of Nym. She’s shorter than him by a few inches but her stance and expression make her feel as if she’s filling the room. On the small table next to her, atop a towel, sit the flogger and the wooden paddle. It’s a deep chestnut brown, and Remus thinks it looks a little like the key to unlock all of his stresses. Nym’s fingers fit well around the handle, and it’s heavy enough to really thud through him and _beat_ the part of him that says to keep quiet and soldier on into submission.

“Ready?” She asks, watching earnestly.

Remus nods, feels his shoulders sink just a little into relaxation. “Ready, ma’am.”

Nym smiles, cocks her head to the side as if she’s observing him. “Good. On the bench then, Pet, hands and knees.”

Remus obeys, sinks to his knees and closes his eyes. He feels Nym fasten the straps around his knees and thighs, then forearms and wrists. He doesn’t think about the lesson plans, or the mess on his desk he’ll come back to on Monday; not as Nym strokes a hand down his spine. He’s cared for here, in a space where he can be himself. He bites his lip, braces for that first impact. Nym takes her time, makes him wait, but eventually the paddle comes down across Remus’ upper thigh and makes a little gasp spill out of his mouth.

“Colour, Pet?” Nym asks, her voice like bedrock.

“Green, ma’am,” Remus answers, swallowing.

Remus loses count of the blows as his fingers dig bloody crescents into his palms. He sinks into the pain, bites his lip, feels everything rising and spilling up and out of him.

“How’s work, Pet?” Nym asks, like she does every time they do this. None of this is new and Remus greets it like an old friend, whom he knows will treat him right.

“ _Fuck—_ ” Remus groans at the pain spreading over his buttocks and thighs. “It’s fine—fine.”

Nym pauses before she brings the paddle down again, harder than before, and it makes Remus pitch forward just a little and give a sharp groan of pain. “Fine?”

“Ah, fuck—that hurts—”

“Good.” Another smack. “How’s work, Pet?”

“Fucking _shit_ —ah, it’s fucking shit. It’s fucking shit.” Remus can feel the words spilling out of his mouth.

Usually, in subspace, Remus has found most people tend to go non-verbal, tend to sink into a place past language where they can just moan, or shout, or scream. Remus thinks he’s the opposite. He keeps everything so tightly wound that when he slips into that headspace, feels safe, held down, taken care of, opened up, he can just _talk_. Nym knows this best about him, brings it out. It’s taken years for Remus to lean into it, but now he does; he lets it catch him.

“Yeah? Keep going, Pet. What about that shitty colleague of yours, hm?” Nym’s voice is softer now, now she’s broken the dam.

“ _Fuck_. It’s fine—it’s fine, I can’t—”

“You _can_ , Pet.”

“Snape,” Remus spits, clenching and unclenching his hands, pressing them into the floor. He sees stars behind his eyes, doesn’t think of his favourite one. “He’s—it’s fucking shit. He’s a bigoted, narrow-minded little fu—fuck who gets preferential treatment because he’s friends with the head of faculty and I _swear_ —fuck, _ow!”_

“And the head of faculty is still refusing to do anything about it? Did Snape get disciplined for that spat in the staff room?” Nym punctuates her questions with blows of her paddle. Remus gasps and swallows for breath, grateful for the way he’s tied here else he’d be writhing. He can’t get away from the pain, like he can’t get away from his stresses; he needs to sit with them, loosen them and let them go.

Remus doesn’t think to stop the words spilling out of his mouth, eyes closed, fists clenched, chest pressed to the bench with blooming, fiery pain across the back of his thighs. He talks and talks, spills out nearly every single thing worrying him about work; how it’s such _hard_ work, and some of the staff don’t get along, and how he feels as if he’s carrying the burdens of these children around with him when he can’t immediately help them be the best they can.

It all seems to come to a crescendo and Remus’ voice feels more and more raw. He doesn’t even know if Nym can understand his speech now, so fast it’s tumbling out of his mouth, syllable after syllable. But he just _talks,_ because he needs to say it, needs to unearth it from his chest. “And there—there was another fucking engagement at work and Christ, I just feel like I’m going to be alone forever because none of the relationships I have ever seem to work out, and I wonder if I’m fucking in—incapable of connection and the connections I _do_ have—” Remus doesn’t think about his favourite star as he clenches his eyes shut and sees the constellations on his eyelids— “are just fucking meaningless anyway— _Fuck_.”

Remus becomes aware of the hot tears around his eyelashes and the way his breaths sound and _feel_ more like sobs at the same time Nym kneels next to him and pets a hand through his hair.

“Well done, love. That was perfect. You did such a good job, I’m so proud of you.” She presses a kiss to his forehead as Remus catches his breath. She has the flogger in her left hand, still, but Remus can’t quite remember when she moved from the paddle to that. “I’m going to untie you now, okay?”

Remus manages a nod, and soon enough he’s sprawled on the floor on his front, still panting softly. Nym manoeuvres so he can rest his head in her lap and strokes his hair. She keeps up a steady stream of praise and presses Remus’ water bottle into his hand after a few minutes—it stings with the crescent-shaped cuts he’d dug there with his nails, but the ice water is cooling and he knows Nym will clean them later—so he can gulp down a few mouthfuls of ice water through the straw. Nym is murmuring to him still as she shifts, keeping one hand on his shoulder. She’s always so reassuring, allows him to sink into her. Remus feels safe because he taught her; he knows how she works, knows she knows what he needs. The lotion on the back of his thighs is cooling and light. Remus knows Nym favours aloe vera and it suits him too. So he sighs softly as she rubs the gel into his reddened skin, gentle and sweet; Remus lets himself be in this moment where the world is coming back to him. Her other hand stays on the small of his back, grounding and reassuring.

Aftercare is arguably Remus’ favourite part of a scene. He likes the slow return to reality, like coming back to the light after so long in the darkness, slowly, so slowly. He likes the way his body begins to feel like his own again; he can feel his fingers and toes, and move them just by thinking instead of having to really concentrate. The world slows down enough for Remus to catch his breath, here, with Nym’s hand in his hair and her soft words of reassurance. He feels _enough_.

“Tell me when you’re here, hm?” Nym whispers, pressing kisses to his forehead and petting his hair, raking her short nails through the sand.

“Yeah,” Remus breathes, lifting his fingers to rub over his eyes to scrub away the salt of his tears. “M’here. It was good. Just—just what I needed, Nym. Thank you.”

Nym just smiles, nods her head. Her hands come down to knead at the knots of muscle in Remus’ shoulders—which are considerably less tight than they were half an hour ago—with the remnants of aloe vera gel on her hands. “I think you’re right about Snape. You can go to the union, and you know the old Chemistry teacher is on your side, he likes you. Not to mention the head of English, you know she’s a total warrior.”

“Yeah.” Remus closes his eyes, feeling safe, cocooned, light as air. He feels as if his puppet strings have been loose, leaving him to be weighed down by all his worry, and Nym has come along to pull them taut again. “Minerva is great.”

“And you’re not going to be alone forever,” she murmurs with a lingering kiss to his forehead.

Remus lets out a chuckle, straightening up with his now taut puppet strings. “Yeah, I know. The voice in my head just delights in telling me that, you know?” He turns and kisses her cheek. “That was just what I needed. You always know just how to push, and when. You’re fucking fabulous, you know?”

“I know,” Nym says with a grin, knitting her fingers together and stretching her arms out above her head. “I had a great teacher.”

“You need anything?” Remus asks, rubbing a hand over his face.

“ _Top Aftercare is important too, Nym!”_ Her smile is wide as she parrots back a remarkable impression of Remus’ West Country accent. “I’m good. Come on, let’s both have something to eat?”

“Sounds good.”

Remus is a little sluggish to redress but, when he does—back in his black slacks and a deep green shirt with his only blazer atop (the one he wears at school when they have to dress properly; that always gives him a thrill)—he’s standing taller than he has for days, _weeks_ even, and the smile on his face feels natural. He and Nym sit at another booth with their heads leaning together and share a family-sized bar of chocolate, still talking idly about how they’ve been recently. Remus takes his shoes off again and wiggles his toes into the carpet beneath the booth, feeling more grounded than he has in months, perhaps.

A long while later, Nym filters off with a kiss to Remus’ cheek as she goes to find Charlie, leaving Remus to wander around and take in the sights. Whilst it’s possible to conduct most of what Remus needs in private, there’s something about the openness of The Tower that is endlessly appealing to him. For a long time, Remus thought there was something wrong with him, but as soon as he’d walked through the doors here, he’d felt at home. He and Lily sometimes joke that, no matter how perverted you feel, there’s someone who makes you feel like an angel at The Tower.

He watches Lily for a brief moment, subbing for the _other_ Prewett across the room. The two of them love roleplay, so Remus can’t help his smile as he watches Lily in her pseudo-special agent outfit, across from Prewett, the apparent criminal mastermind. He seizes her by the hair and hauls her across the table and then into the chair. Lily kicks and scratches, but he overpowers her. At the edge of the scene, James watches, leaning his hip against the partition. He looks proud of his girlfriend, relaxed; he trusts that Lily and Prewett—it’s Fabian, now, Remus realises as he blindfolds Lily, because Gideon doesn’t like his subs blindfolded—have negotiated this fully and Lily will come out of it in loose-limbed, jellied splendour. Remus can’t help but feel just a slight pang of jealousy as he watches James watch Lily. He loves her so much and she loves him too. They’re so supportive of each others desires, wants, kinks; it seems perfect.

“I agree. It’s really astonishing to see what some slaves can take, isn’t it?” Remus hears a sinuous, lilting voice behind him and just stays still for a moment, listens. “When they are so out of it you could do anything? Ah, masochists will never cease to amuse me.”

It doesn’t take Remus long to identify the source of that voice. Lucius Malfoy’s blonde hair stands out easily in the crowd, pulled back into an elegant knot. A moment later and Remus wonders if the voice in his head could be wrong. Sirius _always_ picks bad play partners. He could—if his head is on straight—be Domming tonight with someone, exuding that boundless energy he has, transferring it into his very favourite knife or that violet wand he really loves. That would be it, wouldn’t it? He wouldn’t be subbing for someone like Malfoy. Biting his lip, Remus sets off around The Tower, looking for that familiar mop of inky black hair, those broad pale shoulders, those long limbs stood tall, those silver eyes shining.

“Alright, Rem?” James asks him, one hand coming out of his pocket to latch onto Remus’ arm as he walks past.

“Yeah. You seen Sirius tonight?”

James just shakes his head, glancing around the areas of the club instinctively. “Not since we arrived. How come?”

“Just looking for him.” Remus doesn’t want to worry James when he’s on monitor duty, but he can tell by the shadow that passes over James’ face that he knows what’s wrong already. “He never learns, does he?”

“Oh, he knows,” James replies, motioning for Remus to follow him across to the bar. “He knows exactly who treats him like that and, honestly, when he’s in this state, I think he wants it. God knows he’s the most self-destructive person I know, and I think he wants to be treated badly.”

Remus sighs. James knows Sirius so well, so of course, he’s right. “Yeah,” he says, feeling a little defeated. “I heard Malfoy talking something about _slaves_. Bragging, you know?”

James rifles through a pile of papers sitting behind the bar, his brow furrowed atop his glasses. “Malfoy was in Room Three.” He looks up, glances around the bar again before looking back to Remus. “You always know what he needs, Remus.”

 _Do I?_ Remus feels his eyebrows hike up at the assertion. What is that supposed to mean? Does James _know_? He’s about to open his mouth to reply, to shoot him down and say something about _it’s just good aftercare_ or, _he’s my best friend_ , but James beats him to it. He looks unbearably earnest.

“You always know what he needs.”

“Oh… okay.” Remus swallows, shoves his hands in his pockets. “I’ll go and find him.”

“Right.” James claps him on the shoulder then moves past him out into the dungeon. Remus watches him go for a moment before he sighs, takes his hands from his pockets, rakes them through his hair then shoves them _back_ in his pockets.

Remus would never think of helping Sirius, of picking his pieces back up, as a burden. It’s something he’s always felt called to do—even before he realised that he would search constellations for that brightest star—because James is right; Remus _does_ know what he needs. They don’t play together well (maybe it’s something about feelings getting in the way, but Remus doesn’t dwell on that) though Remus knows just what Sirius needs _afterwards_. He knows how to pick Sirius’ pieces up and knit them back together. He starts down the corridor towards the private rooms with Lucius’ words echoing in his head.

Room Three has the door closed and Remus listens for a moment, doesn’t hear music from within or shouts or screams. He lifts his hand and knocks smartly on the door, hoping that if Sirius _is_ in there he can answer. He does go non-verbal sometimes.

“Yeah?” It’s Sirius. His voice sounds rough and unused—or _over_ used.

“It’s Remus. I’m coming in.”

Sirius doesn’t reply, so Remus opens the door and turns to shut it behind him without looking up, just for a moment. When he does look up, the lights of the room are turned right up. Remus blinks against the light as he sees Sirius. His best friend is sitting on the edge of the massage table/bed—one of those black pleather things that sit in every private room and are littered throughout the main dungeon—with his hands in his lap. Sirius’ back is ramrod straight and he’s barefooted, in black jeans and no shirt. To anyone else, Remus would wager he looks normal, just sitting and collecting his thoughts, but Remus can see the glazed look in his grey eyes, the way he’s just… not quite here. His fingers are digging into the side of the bench, he’s too still.

Sirius is _never_ still when he’s not in subspace, but he’s stock-still here.

“Hey,” Remus breathes, reaching for the dimmer of the lights to turn it down. “Hey, you’re alright.”

Sirius doesn’t reply, doesn’t move an inch, just stares into the middle distance. James is right, Remus just _knows_ what he needs. He quickly spots Sirius’ backpack in the corner and crosses over to pluck it up. From this side view, Remus can see Sirius’ profile in the dim light, the straightness of his nose, the sharpness of his jawline. He can also see the edges of red marks across his back and upper arms. He’s willing to bet Lucius has done _nothing_ in terms of aftercare, not even the most basic physical _courtesy_ , and he wants to scream and go back outside and punch Malfoy right in the face but he’s here with Sirius, instead.

“I’m here, Sirius. You’re okay, I have you. You’re not alone,” Remus murmurs, crossing back to the bed as he pulls the blanket from the bottom of Sirius’ bag. Wrapping it gingerly around his shoulders, Remus sits next to him on the bed. He knows just what Sirius needs, knows to brush the tendrils of hair back from his forehead. “You’re not alone, I’m right here. You’re here, you’re with me, I have you. I’ve got you.”

Remus used to be worried about boundaries, the first few times he gave Sirius the aftercare he really needs. He hadn’t realised why for a long time, until it dawned on him that he _wanted_ to cross those boundaries with Sirius. Until he realised his affection wasn’t just platonic anymore. But now Remus knows he doesn’t need to worry about boundaries, not with Sirius, not when he’s like this. Sirius needs physical affection, he needs Remus to shift behind him, wrap his arms around Sirius, stroke so gently over those unaffected areas, ground him here with their shared physicality; so that’s what he does, because he _knows_.

Sirius digs his fingers into Remus’ forearms, his first real reaction to his friend’s presence, and Remus relishes it; he’s here, they haven’t broken him yet.

“Remus?”

“Yeah, I’m here. I’ve got you. I’m gonna look after you, okay? I’m right here,” Remus says as he moves behind Sirius and pulls the blanket down off his shoulders. The welts on his back are criss-crossed and Remus can tell immediately, from experience, that they are from two different instruments. The pointed tip of a dragon kiss whip leaves reddened stripes across the broadness of Sirius’ shoulders. Blood beads along a few welts, bright red and coppery, and Remus stifles a sigh to see the lack of care his friend was treated with.

Beneath those bloodied welts sit the hatch-marks of a knife. They haven’t broken the skin, not quite, but the lines left are bright red and deep fuchsia. Knifeplay is a penchant of Sirius’, he knows, both Topping and bottoming; so Sirius must know how poorly his own body is being handled by the people he gives it over to.

Remus has seen Sirius in the darkest corner of the dungeon, arms around Marlene, one hand holding a knife to her throat, the other up her skirt. Remus has seen him whisper _don’t move_ to Marlene and heard her whimper and moan in the same breath. But Remus has also seen him wrap Marlene in a blanket, kiss her forehead and tell her how perfectly wonderful she is; put salve on those little raised abrasions and take care of her.

Remus realises he’s _never_ seen Sirius bottom a scene before. Perhaps it’s because he _knows_ one of his friends would call him out for it, so he always hides in the private rooms. Remus has seen him Top, seen him shimmering with power and energy, bristle with it, but he’s never seen his friend broken apart; only picked him back up.

“What did you do today?” Remus asks on a breath, digging in Sirius’ bag for the disinfecting wipes he keeps there, his other hand on the back of Sirius’ neck. He can tell by the pale skin there that it hasn’t been touched during play, so he feathers his thumb over the fine hairs at the nape of his neck as he opens the packet.

“Knives,” Sirius says, his voice shorn. His eyes aren’t closed but they might as well be. “And—um—a whip. I don’t remember what—what kind.”

Remus starts across his shoulders—marked with stripes of red, white, red, white—and gently swipes over each abrasion, each burgeoning bruise. Lucius has broken the skin with the whip, so he cleans away the blood, makes sure each wound is clean. He wants to get Sirius home and into a bath, clean his wounds properly and tuck him into bed, so he doesn’t do too much right now. Sirius doesn’t react at all to the stinging of the wipe, so Remus is sure he’s still not quite here, but he continues. “That’s okay. You did really wonderfully, I’m sure. You’re here, I’m here, I’ve got you.” He bites his lip, stifles a sigh. “Did you fill out a checklist, so I know?”

Sirius shakes his head. “Don’t bother with them.”

“You know you should.” Remus works down his back, slowly, with care. He knows he’s treating Sirius’ skin with reverence, wishing he could kiss away the pain that others leave him with, but he can’t stop those feelings bubbling to the surface. He understands why Sirius does this, but it doesn’t make it easier to bear. He knows that Sirius knows better, because he’s one of the most wonderful, caring, knowledgeable Tops at The Tower, but he’s a reckless, self-destructive bottom. They don’t talk about their childhoods, never have, even at university, but Remus knows it’s something in Sirius’ background; something that makes him feel as if he needs to seek out something _more_ than what he has.

“I know,” Sirius says, and it _sounds_ so sad.

“It’s okay. I’m here.” Remus sets the bloodied wipe aside. If they were staying here longer he would put the healing salve over the cuts, but tonight he wants to get Sirius back to their flat, wants to whisk away that glazed look in his eyes in the comfort of their shared home. For now, though, he concentrates on keeping Sirius grounded, pulling him back to his body after so long in this headspace, sunk so deep into pain. One hand still on Sirius’ neck, the other delves into his bag to retrieve his water bottle. It’s a little damp from condensation and Remus wipes it hastily on his jeans before holding it out to Sirius.

“Here, drink some?” It’s posed as a question, but Remus knows Sirius will listen. Sirius trusts him when they’re like this, trusts him to pick up his pieces, and Remus _always_ will.

Remus holds the water bottle for Sirius as he drinks through the straw, but Sirius holds the water bottle around Remus’ hands. Remus doesn’t think on the touch, it’s just here and grounding for them both. It’s a moment later when Remus notices the rope burn around Sirius’ wrists. A quick glance downwards confirms matching ties around his ankles, red and raw.

Rope is an interest and love they share, but Remus would never leave burns like that unattended on his play partner. Remus purses his lips, suppressing the urge to go find Lucius and punch him again because Sirius needs him here. He doesn’t say anything to his friend, and he’s not sure Sirius notices because of how glazed he is, so Remus just helps him drink some more of his water, watching the life come back to him.

“Did you have anything planned with someone else tonight?” Remus can’t help pressing a kiss to the top of Sirius’ head. It’s strange; because Sirius is taller than him by a few inches it happens rarely, but, here, he can do it.

“No.”

“I think we should go home. I want to clean some of these cuts, and get you in a bath, hm?” Remus keeps his voice soft, still stroking his thumb over the back of Sirius’ neck. His other hand is on Sirius’ thigh, squeezing slightly to keep him as grounded as he can.

“Yeah… please,” Sirius says, and Remus hears and feels a breath pull into his lungs. He holds it there, before he tips his chin up, his head back onto Remus’ shoulder. The startling vulnerability of it hits Remus like a sledgehammer, and his own breath quivers. God, he wants to kiss Sirius more than anything, but he knows that’s not what Sirius needs right now. So, instead, he rubs his thumb over the nape of Sirius’ neck, soothing circles.

“Okay, let’s go home. Can you stand?” Remus’ hands go to Sirius’ forearms (untouched too, just muscled and pale) to steady him.

Sirius takes another breath, then another, as he slips off the bed and stands, wavering just a little. He straightens up, leaving the blanket in Remus’ lap. Before him, Sirius’ back is broad and muscled, shifting with his movements. The abrasions look like tattoos, like adornments on the reliquary of Sirius’ body. Remus has never known anyone to inhabit life as fully as Sirius; he is alive in a way Remus can only grasp tangentially. Perhaps it’s the way he throws himself into everything—Tops likehe is the only person that matters to his bottom (and he probably is in the moment), and bottoms as if he is just a _thing_ to be used and abused. He flits between everything, inhabiting every sensation so fully. Remus feels closer to godliness when he’s around Sirius.

All at once, Sirius _seems_ fine. Remus knows he’s not though, because his jaw is clenched just a little too much, his silver eyes still vacant and glassy. Anyone who doesn’t _know_ Sirius like Remus does would assume he’s back in his body, ready to carry on as normal. But no, he’s not here.

Remus bites his lip, rakes his hands through his hair as he follows Sirius. He doesn’t let himself look too long, not in the way he _wants_ to look. He folds Sirius’ blanket back into his backpack, the disinfectant wipes too, and his water bottle. He preoccupies himself with that, with the aftercare he _can_ give Sirius, the parts of himself he can allow Sirius to own.

When he looks back up, Sirius is zipping up his hoodie over his bare chest. Thankfully it’s warm out and they can go right back to the flat, so Remus just looks at that pale triangle of skin atop the zipper. Sirius holds onto the wall as he toes into his shoes, still staring vacantly into the middle distance. Remus holds his hand out to Sirius, trying not to feel as if he’s asking for something else, as if he’s overstepping again. But Sirius just smiles, laces their fingers together. Remus reminds himself it’s just physical comfort for his best friend.

They avoid saying goodbye to everyone on the way out of The Tower. Sirius has a way of standing out in a crowd—the way he carries himself, head up, his striking looks—but when he’s glazed like this, vacant behind silver whirlpools, he can slip by everything, and that’s a concept Remus knows all too well. They hail a taxi from the main thoroughfare at the end of the street, and Sirius is still holding Remus’ hand. It’s physical contact, a comfort for them both, to support Sirius when he’s still partway into his headspace. But Remus lets him hold on for his own reasons too, because the feeling of Sirius’ large palm in his is so reassuring.

Remus gives their address after he’s practically poured Sirius into the taxi. They stop holding hands as they buckle up and Remus watches Sirius, his stillness, his quietness, drawing inward instead of pulsing out. Usually Sirius is the life of the party; he’s always the centre of conversation, always has people hanging off his every word as he tells an extravagant story, or downs a bottle of beer in one go, or twirls his butterfly knife through his deft fingers as a party trick. He exudes _living_. But here in the taxi, he’s quiet. Remus only notices because he _knows_ Sirius, because the way he’s lounging in his seat—one leg out straight, one arm across the back of the cab seats—exudes a sort of casual comfort with himself, a confidence Sirius is steeped in. He only sits that way when he’s pretending, when he’s hyper-aware of his need to be Sirius Black. He’s wonderful at pretending, but Remus watches the light of the passing cars reflecting in his silver eyes—they’re _too_ glassy, too frosted, lacking all of that warmth he _knows_ is Sirius Black. They’re like mirrors, like shattered glass or the crystalline water of rock pools on Devon beaches. Sirius isn’t there, still. He’s somewhere up above, where the crack of a whip and the icy press of a knife blade sends him.

Remus will bring him back.

Sirius pays for the taxi and Remus doesn’t argue, because his paycheck won’t come through for another two weeks. His best friend is a little more sturdy as they walk towards their building, and insists on opening the door himself when he pulls his lanyard full of keys from his hoodie pocket. Remus doesn’t say anything as Sirius fumbles once, twice with the keys, and then follows him up the stairs to their top floor flat. Halfway up, Sirius wavers just a little and Remus’ hand goes immediately to his lower back; just to try and ground him, to support him. He doesn’t take Sirius’ hand, or holds his elbow or makes a comment like _whoa there, you okay?_ because Remus _knows_ just what Sirius needs; he doesn’t need coddling, fussing over, he just needs Remus here; as an unflinching support to pull him back from that high place. Remus will always be here.

Inside, in the safety of their home as the door swings shut, Sirius slumps against the wall, pressing one shoulder into it. His eyes are still as glassy as ever, and Remus aches with knowing just how far away he is. Him, Sirius, who is always so full of life. With a small sigh, Remus shrugs off his own jacket, hangs it on the peg, and toes off his shoes.

The regularity with which this happens weighs heavily on Remus. Every few weeks, if not more often, Remus will find Sirius in the darkest corner of The Tower, clean his cuts, stroke his hair and help him to his feet. He would’ve thought it strange to try and reconcile the vision of Sirius he has usually—brimming with life, with a whip-like rattan cane in one hand, someone’s hair in the other and a viciously proud smile on his lips—with this Sirius, but he doesn’t. He knows now that every extreme can live within Sirius Black. Sirius can climb the highest mountains and sink into the deepest pits. He is arrogant and brash, over-confident and fiery, and yet insecure, neurotic, plagued with guilt and a lack of self-worth. Sirius lives fully, one way or the other.

 _Perhaps that’s why I can get lost when I look at him, why it hurts to see how perfect he is in all of his imperfections_ , Remus thinks as he puts a hand on Sirius’ shoulder and guides him into the bathroom. The lights go on their dimmest setting and Remus leaves the door ajar so Sirius can see the rest of the flat beyond. There’s a camping chair in the cupboard of the bathroom and Remus retrieves it, setting it by the sink. A moment later, Sirius folds himself into it, back still ramrod straight, his feet pressed to the ground, toes digging in. The chair is there mainly for aftercare; in an ideal world it would be something plush and far more comfortable, but their bathroom is small, so it works fine for now.

The bathroom is silent but for their breathing as Remus sets the bath running, throws in a few handfuls of the salts Dorcas makes and sells—specifically formulated for post-scene aches and pains—and perches himself on the edge of the tub. Sirius hasn’t said a thing, just stayed with his elbows on his knees, staring at that middle distance. Remus reaches out and curls his fingers around Sirius’ wrist, just above the rope burn. He can feel the thud of Sirius’ heart beneath alabaster skin, and a smile flickers across Sirius’ face. He still doesn’t meet Remus’ eye though, but that’s okay; Remus knows it takes a lot to bring Sirius back from his space, gently coaxing him with soft touches and strokes, so that’s what Remus’ll keep doing.

Soon enough the bath fills, and Remus leans over to turn the taps off before guiding Sirius to his feet. His friend doesn’t let him help undress, though, because his fingers are sure tonight as he pulls off his hoodie and shucks off his jeans and the tight black briefs beneath. Remus bites his lip, God, Sirius is so beautiful and he knows it, always moving with his innate grace, even when he’s beaten senseless. Remus holds a hand out for Sirius as he steps into the bath, but he doesn’t need it and Remus draws it back as Sirius sinks into the warm water with a soft sigh.

“Temperature’s good, right?” Remus asks, swallowing as he sits himself in the camping chair after scooting it closer to the tub.

Sirius answers by slipping under the water, submerging his head and raking his hair back from his face. It blooms around him like a cloud of ink, glorious contrast against his pale skin. He’s a little too tall for the tub like this, so his knees are bent up above the water and pink with scuff marks. When he emerges back from the water like some ethereal sea creature ready to lure Remus to a watery grave, he opens his eyes, still staring at the surface that’s rippling gently.

“S’good.”

Remus watches a bead of water travel down the sharp plane of Sirius’ nose. It drips from the end and gets caught on his top lip, travels over his fine mouth—so prone to cruelty and elation in the same breath—before it tips from the angle of his chin and drops into the water.

“Good,” Remus breathes, thinking and ruminating again on all of the paradoxical nature of the man in front of him; how he’s everything and nothing everyone and no one expects him to be. Remus feels all-consumed by him in moments like these, passing parts of himself off to Sirius to absorb, so he can feel some of that life.

There is a steady rhythm of _drip-drip-drip_ from the ends of Sirius’ hair into the water as he sits, back _still_ straight. Remus is mesmerised by it until he notes the water swirling around Sirius is turning a little pink. He scoots the chair forward and gently sweeps Sirius’ hair from his shoulder, revealing those splits from the whip, the abrasions from the knife beneath. They’ve opened again a little with movement and the hot water, but the salts will be good for them. Remus bites his lip as he cups his hand in the water and sluices it up over Sirius’ back.

Sirius lets out a soft hiss—it’s reassuring to Remus because that means Sirius can _feel_ it; he’s coming back to his body—and his back arches just a little. Remus looks and looks, because here is _Sirius_ , so gorgeous, with the cleft of his arse beneath the slightly cloudy water, the dimples of his lower back, the ladder-rungs of his spine, the slant of his shoulder blades, the column of his neck.

“Sorry,” Remus whispers, frighteningly close to the shell of Sirius’ ear as he leans in.

“S’good, Rem, don’t worry.” Sirius is starting to sound like himself. No one says _Rem_ like that, to make him shiver and squirm. He’s still staring at the surface of the water, his gaze soft, but his molten eyes are starting to solidify to steel.

“None of these look too deep,” Remus says, still sweeping water over the elegant planes of Sirius’ back. On one shoulder sits a slightly deeper set of hash marks from a foray into bloodplay that Remus remembers all too well.

Sirius has always been drawn to those edges, so he’d wanted to try it for years—cutting so deep the blood beads to the surface and runs in pretty rivulets over creamy skin—but he also has a rather common opinion of never giving something if he can’t receive it. Remus has that opinion too, but he never wants to break the skin, only mar it so beautifully. Sirius had been almost manic after that bloodplay scene with Emmeline, and Remus had caught him on the comedown, curled up in bed with him and made sure to change the dressing across his shoulder.

“You should be fine just with some ointment on them, yeah?”

“Yeah.” Sirius swallows. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” is all Remus can murmur in reply, tilting his head. He’s so close to Sirius, so close. The silver hoop in his ear catches the low light of the room and Remus wants to taste it. He has to sit back when Sirius abruptly sinks back into the water, his head resting on the side of the tub again.

Sirius is still for a while, a few minutes at least. The clock in the hallway is ticking and Remus is just looking, looking, looking. He can’t stop himself from staring at Sirius like this, all of his contradictions. Sirius’ head lolls to the side and for the first time that night, his steel eyes focus on Remus. They are electrifying. Sirius has so much presence that, when he turns it upon Remus, he can’t help but shiver.

“You do this every damn time,” Sirius says, sounding just like himself, his voice still a little rough but _oh so_ warm. “Thank you.”

Remus can feel his cheeks warming. He glances at his hands, then back up to Sirius as a small smile spreads tentatively across his lips. It feels close and honeyed in the bathroom like this, steamy and affectionate and oh so tender.

“I know I do. You’re my best mate. I’m… always here to pick you up, Sirius.”

“Even though I never learn?”

This time Remus’ smile turns downwards at the corners, quirking sadly. He thinks of James’ words at the club earlier, thinks of the way Sirius does this again and again.

“I think you do… I think you just… _don’t care_.”

Sirius just blinks in response. Usually, if Remus calls him out on something, he’ll spit a curse and walk off. He’s always a live wire with an explosive temper but, here, he seems to absorb it. Emboldened, Remus continues.

“I think you know exactly what’s going to happen, and you do it anyway. You… you let them hurt you and not care for you properly because you think you’re above care or above basic courtesy, or you... you don't deserve it, somehow. I know you know better. You’re a wonderful Top, but you’re…” Remus trails off.

He can’t say what he wants to say, can’t say that it hurts to see him hurting, that it hurts to pick him up and piece him together, that he worries about what will happen if Sirius takes it too far, that seeing someone he adores and wants to cherish and _worship_ treat himself so poorly makes Remus’ heart clench so much he feels as if he might be sick with it. So he bites his lip, says nothing.

Sirius lifts his hands and rubs them over his face and Remus stares at the grouting of the tiles behind him; not studying Sirius’ profile, not wondering what it would be like to be in there with him, legs either side of Sirius’ strong thighs, pressing kisses to each abrasion. All at once, Sirius stands, the water pouring off of him. He’s never looked more like that ethereal sea creature, and Remus feels as if he’s shipwrecked on the rocks, staring at Sirius in all of his nakedness, like siren-song. Remus is struck, stuck, pinned to the spot.

“Pass me that towel please, Rem?” Sirius asks. Of course, Remus has seen him naked before, so many times, because they all live together and Sirius has not a modicum of shame about his body. But here, in the low light, with the water, with the vulnerability of their questions, with the warmth of skin, it seems all too much. Remus comes back to his senses and plucks the towel from the rack.

Soon enough, Sirius has the towel slung around his waist and is leaving wet footprints on the bathroom floor. He pauses in the doorway with the light a halo around him.

“Put ointment on these cuts for me?” He asks, as if it’s a question at all, as if Remus won’t tend to the wounds left by others who don’t realise just what Sirius wants, what he _needs_ , like Remus does.

Remus smiles, rolls his eyes. “Of course.” He watches Sirius smile, turn away, and his profile glimmers. Remus’ breath catches in his throat. “Sirius?”

He turns back with a questioning eyebrow.

“Do you want me to stay?”

It’s Sirius’ turn to quirk a smile. “Don’t I always?”

_It’s just good aftercare. Sirius is prone to abandonment fears when he bottoms. He’s tactile, he likes Remus’ presence as a warm body. It could be anyone. It’s just good aftercare. He’s my best friend._

By the time Remus opens his mouth to answer, Sirius is gone from the doorway. Remus bites his lip as he pulls the plug on the bath. He leaves the chair out, though, for Lily and James later tonight, and leaves the door ajar as he makes his way to his own bedroom. Remus is quick to shuck off his clothes—hang his blazer in the wardrobe, ready for work on Monday—and shrug on a pair of pyjama bottoms and a Queen shirt that he found in a charity shop (he’s pretty sure it’s actually _from_ 1980) that’s far too baggy around his shoulders but which he loves too much, still.

Following Sirius’ wet footprints into his bedroom seems like the easiest thing in the world to do. He’s done it a hundred times before, put ointment on Sirius’ cuts and bruises, stayed with him so that the feeling of abandonment that lingers at the edges of his mind and only creeps closer after a scene doesn’t engulf him.

Sirius is already sitting on the edge of the messy black bedspread—still upright and taut—by the time Remus comes through the door and eases it shut behind him. He’s wearing fluffy plaid pyjama bottoms that are too short around his ankles and Remus has to smile. He’s had those pyjamas for years—perhaps there’s something about them that are uniquely comforting to Sirius—and Remus has come to expect them on nights like these.

Without a word, Remus pads to the bed and slips on next to his friend. This whole room screams Sirius: the leather jacket hanging on the back of the door, the record collection on the bookshelf, the motorcycle helmet on the desk that’s surrounded by architectural drawings, his latest commission, the ashtray on the windowsill, the glow in the dark stars on the ceiling even though he’s twenty eight. Remus wriggles his toes under the faux fur blanket thrown across the bed and glances to Sirius again. It’s a testament to the fact that Sirius still isn’t fully grounded that he doesn’t catch Remus’ glance and throw it back with a smirk of his own.

Instead, Sirius opens the drawer of the nightstand, retrieving a tube of ointment. There’s no need for small talk when they’ve done this so often, so Remus unscrews the lid of the ointment as Sirius opens his cigarettes, slides two between his lips and lights them with a click of his lighter. Tendrils of smoke circle around Sirius’ damp hair as Remus shifts behind him and begins picking out the cuts and abrasions on Sirius’ back, like Remus is a painter picking out the sun-lilted highlights on a landscape. After a moment, Sirius reaches over his shoulder and passes Remus the second cigarette; another part of their little ritual here. Remus holds the cigarette between his teeth as he adorns Sirius’ back with the personal brand of his affection, his care and attention. He takes his time, lovingly feathering over each mark, carving against the planes of Sirius’ well-muscled back whilst Sirius smokes.

“You’re right,” Sirius says, startling Remus’ out of the almost-meditative state he’s in.

Remus isn’t sure how to reply, or what Sirius is saying exactly, so he just takes a drag on his cigarette and continues working along the marks left on Sirius’ skin. Thankfully, Sirius elaborates.

“I guess my masochism runs deeper than I thought, right? Either that or shitty aftercare is one of my primary kinks, huh?” Sirius huffs a laugh through a plume of cigarette smoke, his alpine shoulders shaking.

Remus leans over and stubs his cigarette out with a little more force than necessary. He can feel tension rise up his spine, creep up the back of his neck.

“It’s not funny, Sirius.”

Sirius flicks his own cigarette butt into the ashtray with a sort of enviable insouciance as Remus wipes his palms free of ointment on the thighs of his pyjamas.

“What?” He asks, turning to face Remus just a little, one long leg bent up.

“It’s not funny. You could get hurt, or _worse_ , and I couldn’t fucking stand it if you did.”

As soon as the words leave Remus’ mouth—close and quiet with just the table lamp on the nightstand, Sirius’ broad shoulders before him, rising and falling with each breath and the fractured vulnerability of submission between them—he realises it’s a mistake. He’s said too much.

Sirius turns fully, his hair in an elegant sweep across his collarbones. His voice is quieter this time, a breath carrying the hint of a word instead of his usual self-assuredness. His steel grey eyes focus on Remus again.

“Yeah?”

Remus thinks of lying, thinks of playing it off— _it’s just good aftercare_ , or _you’re my best friend_ —but then he can’t play it off anymore because here, in the warmth and quiet, in Sirius’ room, with Sirius looking at him like that, his _best friend_ asking him if he really would be upset if anything happened to him, he can’t lie to Sirius, can’t lie to himself.

“Yeah,” Remus says instead, his gaze flickering over Sirius’. “I couldn’t stand it if you got hurt, Sirius. It… fucking hurts me every time I pick you up off the floor, but I can’t just… leave you there.”

Sirius licks his lips. Remus watches him, as if he can look anywhere else but at Sirius Black when he’s this electric; when the truth is winnowing and shuddering between them and Remus is inches away from the lips he’s wanted to kiss for the longest time.

“Sometimes I do stupid things because I know it’ll be _you_ who picks me up,” Sirius murmurs, a wretched, wry, twisting smile gracing his lips. “And you always know just what I need.”

Remus’ heart leaps up into his throat, hammering a hummingbird staccato on his vocal chords so that his voice chokes a little when he tries to speak. “You’re so fucking _stupid_ , Sirius. I’ll—I’ll always pick you up. I’ll always know what you need.”

It’s quiet, just for a moment, before Sirius lifts one hand and brushes his thumb across the high point of Remus’ cheekbone. Remus shuts his eyes at the unbearable tenderness in his touch. This can’t just be aftercare, can it? And are they _just_ best friends? Or is the way Remus is blooming with the honesty of his confession something deeper, the way Sirius is touching him so tenderly, as if he doesn’t want to break him, break any part of them or the fragility between them? Remus bites his lip, lets himself draw in a tentative breath.

Sirius’ lips meet his in a flush of warmth and Remus sinks into him, as if he’ll ever be anywhere else. Sirius shifts closer, his other hand going to Remus’ shoulder to stroke over his collarbone, and Remus hums in response, his mouth against Sirius’ in soft, indolent passes. There’s a moment of hesitation between them, where Sirius draws back just enough for their lips to stick, for his eyes to flicker open and search Remus’ face for the uncertainty Remus knows is miles away. Then Sirius sinks back, tries to pull Remus into his lap to settle across his strong thighs. He only gets halfway; his back is too raw ,and his murmur of pain makes Remus jolt back.

“Sorry,” Remus whispers, staring at Sirius’ smirking lips.

“S’okay. C’mere.” He’s so soft but commanding, as if Remus’ kiss has been the thing that settles him fully back into his body, as if it’s Remus to bring him back from _that_ place. It is him, isn’t it? He does it every time.

Remus shifts as Sirius lays on his side, hooks an arm around Remus’ waist. Their foreheads are pressing together and all Remus can see is Sirius: his eyes, the fine bridge of his nose, the arch of his eyebrows. His thumb is rubbing over the lands and grooves of Remus’ ribcage.

“You always know what I need, too,” Remus murmurs, slotting one leg between Sirius’.

His smirk is so wonderfully bright. There’s the Sirius he knows; so full of life, spilling over with it.

“What?”

Remus swallows, curls his fingers through the damp ends of Sirius’ hair as if its alive on it’s own, as if it’s a gentle creature he needs to respect, else it will wrap around him, pull him into the depths. Remus wants to let it, though, so he brushes his thumb along Sirius’ jawline; the alabaster skin above bone like fine china.

“This. You. Just you, here with me.”


End file.
